[ was this irony or punishment or both—? what does he even do? he's lost him, he can't see or feel viktor anymore, just a senseless husk that makes him spiral every time that puzzing voice rings the fractures of his mind encased in his skull like a bell. ]
P-Please, come back, Viktor—
[ he's begging. he needs him. without him, and without a path he could see to bring him back from the brink— jayce had done it all for nothing. and that is what he's feeling, right now.
a deep, harrowing hopelessness that was swallowing his will to survive one more day. viktor of the future was probably so indescribably disappointed in him. would he understand? would he hate him for this?
he mumbles, to himself as he cradles his own head: it's not my fault, this was an accident, we shouldn't be here, i promised, my promise, no, no i, failed, failure, i'm a, no . . . take me back, i want, to go back, i promised you— ]
I am right here. Don't you see? This is my best version.
[His hold on Jayce is secure, carrying him down the cabin steps three at a time, strides cracking the wood paneling beneath them. Viktor's tone is hollowed and empty, the only thing there is recognition devoid of awe. Pride without humanity. Speaking to an accomplishment, yet holding no elation and no dissatisfaction.
Speaking truth, without any meaning.]
Free of pain, free of emotion. My mind has full clarity, I am unclouded by weakness. I sought this.
[His pursuit has ended. This is all he could have hoped for, a version of himself that can complete his goals, unburdened by all that held him down in his life.]
[ if he's dying, if he's going to die soon— then he wants these to be his last words to him. not i'm sorry. not his fractured babbling. through his worn breathing, jayce musters up the energy, a last dance to cling, to twist his head, to do something— ]
You never needed to be perfect, Viktor.
[ would he hear him? would he be able to touch that concentrated core somewhere beneath that purple matter? if jayce has one last hope, it's this one, and he seizes it like a lifeline, like an angel pulling him out of the depths he was drowning in. if it's going to snap anyway, well . . .
at least it was telling him more. more than maybe he could've said, explained, at another time, another place. another life. he's not getting through the day and he's serving him his heart— with all of his own flaws. ]
—I- I loved you for every imperfection. They're what make you.
Your intellect has always been undercut by your sentimental passion, Jayce. You love deeper than you think.
[While Viktor... Viktor is free of such passions. Of his loves and hates. He has been purged of all the unnecessary clutter of human experience. The messiness, cleaned up and organized into objective truths. It is so blissful, to be free of so much complication, so many clashing wants and impractical concerns.
All he has now is a goal. A promise to keep, a commitment to uphold.
Jayce will live, because Viktor's purpose is wrapped too far up in their dream to ever be separated from him.
Being the Herald, he cannot comprehend why he has this as his purpose, it merely is. A fact, fixed and unable to be changed nor altered. It may as well have been programmed into him, his ordained function, the reason for this form.]
You will understand when given proof. I will demonstrate my worthiness. Free you of the burdens I have caused. This is progress.
[ jayce hung on until the last minute, but even with his heart divulged, finishing its rupture, only logic reverberates back to him. he doesn't want to argue about this— it's a struggle without end. if he pushes, jayce will always be met with pulls. he's already out of breath as is . . .
jayce feels the strain overcoming his features, the burn at the base of his nose burdening the muscles surrounding his mouth. where the herald holds him is where he hangs in silence— the occassional strangled sob may slip, but he says no more. ]
[Viktor walks with Jayce on a shoulder back to the Convoy. The shield is up and while he's unsure if Jayce can go through it, Viktor feels a certainty he cannot breach to the convoy in this form. Or perhaps, he merely should not. He looks no different from any of the monsters assailing their fellow travelers. Illogical to cause a panic.
He hoists his broken down partner off his shoulder once they find his butterfly engraved truck, just outside the shield's boundary. Viktor... passes the man his crutch, so he can use it for once. The Herald no longer requires such a tool.]
Take shelter. I will return for you when this matter is resolved and the shield is lowered.
[ jayce has gone from a hanging sack of potatoes to a slanted sack of potatoes. the herald still towers over him as he leans against the framework of his pick up for support, staring at the uncanny form before him, its metal slopes and curves, bolts and graceful asymmetry, searching for viktor in cold, gold garnished eyes and finding nothing but suffocating emptiness.
the crutch— he takes it. jayce clutches viktor's crutch as if its the only thing he has left of him— a symbol of his strife and accomplishments, of his rise in a world that was so split, of all of his hard work, of his beautiful imperfections that jayce did love, with all of his heart and soul. he helped make this crutch for him.
jayce allows the herald to leave in the same way he'd ended up here: in a dreadful silence of quiet nods and simple gestures (not that it matters, to viktor). he needs to think, to scrape up what he's gathered— maybe do a little more digging as a final drive. his heart skips in places that feel uncomfortable. his limbs ache with cold, until it devolves into a gradually creeping, painful numbness.
he finishes up, gives his papers all to serph, eventually, and waits for either the herald to return or for death to pay him a visit. he thinks he's more prepared for the latter. ]
(2/2) cw: gross infection stuff and imminent character death
[ he's not, for the record, and for some reason he'd thought he'd pass away as fast as his onset. he thought, foolishly but perhaps hopefully, that it would be quick after what felt like the harshest of pains mangling his heart. it's everything but, starting with his earlier, numbing pain dissiminating through the rest of him: chest, torso, abdomen, back, shoulder, his left leg and arm are the absolute worst of it. he stops writing his letter on the dash board when there's a smudge of blood on it, uncertain of where it came from and searching— until he finds it's from his nails. every blunt bed is bleeding. it dawns on him that his clothes are wet where they hug his hextouched scars. back, shoulder, leg— a look and touch at that— bleeding. something wet splashes his shaking hand. blood from the nose. the aches turn to stabs, and before jayce could get out of the car on his own, his leg crunches under his weight, and he falls sideways with a sodden yelp.
his vision is swimming, his heart thumping so unbeleivably fast he could hear the racing in his ears, feel that it could pop out of his chest at any moment and he'd die that way. from a broken, overworked heart. but it is not stopping there. jayce's lungs try to keep up, give him air, but no matter how quickly he tries to bring the oxygen in, it wasn't enough to soothe his invisible suffocation. it burns. the faster he breathes, the more the fire catches, and he cannot seem to slow it down.
he feels— an energy. a flow. pulsating and invading and wrong, and jayce scrambles for the front seat door swung open, for anything he may have left in the compartments or pockets to cut open the fabric under his brace. he finds— he doesn't even see what it is, only that he could use the edge of it to pull apart seams in his rush. under his soaked pants leg is the nasty concoction of iridescent decay touched by the anomaly. strings of pus stick to cotton as he peels it away, or tries to, the dribbling blood from it mixing with bright greens, blue and pinks like gasoline. it smells god awful. the bone jostles inside and jayce feels like he could vomit and expire right there.
his consciousness dips, the blackness of his vision spreads at the edges, but he's thrown back to awareness by god knows what. his body doesn't want to stop. he realizes in his desperate heaving that he doesn't want to die, because— he still has something to do. send me back. he needs to go back. he wants to go back, there's a chance, there's still a chance there. where he actually needs to be.
his attempts are futile, but he hasn't come all this way just to give up. he hasn't. his own words thrum deep in his mind with each batter of his irratic pulse: i won't fail. he takes the leather straps of the top of his brace and squeezes as hard as he can to form a tourniquet. it still bleeds and the anomaly crawls higher. his arm— it's juttering on its own.
hiking his sleeve up his forearm to catch the webbed throbbing from the embedded rune overtaking his veins, jayce could feel the last of his strength being sapped. he sinks backwards against the truck's step up, trying to stay upright with useless gasping— the anomaly claws up his arm, plows a byway of multicolored nets up the left side of his neck and leaves a perfect pattern of holes crawling under his skin and boiling up to the surface.
now comes the panic. he's tachypneic, dyspneic, every shallow breath is painful and useless and still he's trying, writhing at the wheels of the truck and frantically raking at the footwell for viktor's cane on the passenger side.
The Herald returns after the battle has concluded and the Convoy is powering down from the crisis. Jayce will feel the abrupt grab of an overlarge hand at the back of his neck, scruffing him once more to lift away from the door. He's lifted clear off his feet, not that he's in any state to be on them, as the Herald looks him up and down in such a dire state. Bleeding through his clothes, infections boiling over. Jayce is practically falling apart at the seams.
Jayce is carried around and laid to the bed of his truck. Flat. With Viktor stepping over him and looking down with a cant of his head. Best done before any piece can fall off of him. Viktor's regard is as cold as ever, not emotional enough to even be scolding,]
How did it come to this, Jayce? What failure point do you have that we did not predict? You were simply not meant to die before I was.
jayce's brows crease with dolor and mourning as he's cleaved from the prospect of retrieving viktor's cane, hardly having the energy to kick, to smack— he barely has it in him to keep reaching as he's hoisted by the herald's claw and haphazardly placed on the cargo bed. his labor to breathe is about to get worse when his lungs contract from the extended pooling within it when laid on his back, he sputters— and blood spurts from his mouth and nose like a fountain, foamy and bright red with the stains of colors that were contaminating his flesh as is. he can't even turn over by himself, arching his neck and back as he coughs and violently asphyxiates on his own fluids.
his heart, his wheezing, his garbled cries— it's all too loud. he could barely hear him and make sense of words, his consciousness as bleak as a thread ready to snap. jayce looks to his spasming wrist anyway, as if it were an answer, where the acceleration rune glows, ripples— and the arcane's touch raids the left side of his face.
the guttural sounds that spewed off his wet lips might as well just be frantic nothings twined with his soaked panting. from his usual bronze he's as pale as paper, blood from his back and leg forming an oozing pool of pearly gore at the back of the pick-up. jayce points his eyes up, passenger seat as his organs fail him one by one. he stares in that direction, not the herald, eyes rolling back and fighting to keep craning, to stay awake through the searing that ravaged his chest from the inside. back window. the pretty curve of a personalized golden-red handle. the flip of chestnut curls twirled to one side when he was deep in thought. a mole above his lip, another just under his cheek like stars in the darkness of his vision failing. it might sound like he's squeaking, weeping:
vik, trr. viktr. vik. v. v. v.
how he manages to drag his hand up to brush his bloodied knuckles at the window was the result of a perishing delusion, but at least he . . . didn't feel alone. ]
[The Herald commands, as if words will change the fact of things. Jayce is sputtering his last breaths in blood soaked gurgles and whimpers. He falls heavily to both knees overtop of Jayce, the bed of truck denting down where his weight lands. Hands cross over one another and press palms to Jayce's chest. Even, rhythmic pushes follow. One, two, three- One, two, three- the beat of a heart. What beat that should be there.
There is nothing there. Jayce's body fails, protesting his death is of no use.
Not supposed to be. Hands tear away his shirt to bare Jayce's chest, ravaged by sickly flesh and the creep of anomaly infection. Viktor tries again. One, two, three- One, two, crack- Jayce's breastbone gives sickeningly under the continued attempts. The failure strikes at the core of the Herald, but he cannot reckon with it. There must be another step. A more drastic measure. The claw on his back whirls and pushes forward, digs into the broken center of Jayce's chest. It cuts into him with precise motions, scalpel sharp, a cross pattern to peel quarters of skin open.
Revealing the man was already rotted inside, impossibly alive before his death.
He has no purpose without Jayce. Accepting his death is not possible. The claw plucks delicately at broken bones, casting them aside. Muscle and sinew is peeled away, until he can reach Jayce's heart. With care, the three prongs grasp the organ directly, forcing the pulse to return. The action does no good. Even if it could drag Jayce's body into a state of "life", forcing his blood to run only means Jayce's body will be bled out dry. Red pools at Viktor's knees long before it's clear this is pointless.
The heart eventually tears in his grasp, unable to withstand the further abuse and strain. It's fully broken.
Reality hits Viktor. Jayce is dead beneath him. There is no question and no denying the fact.
He feels nothing about this.
No sorrow, no joy. He merely recognizes a failure. It doesn't feel like his own. It doesn't feel like anything at all. The numbness is so pure and distilled, there is no ache to it, no memory nor illusion of pain. Ego death follows. The light inside the Herald simply goes out. A machine unplugged, robbed of its energy source. He slumps, upright on his knees, an inert tower of metal too well balanced to simply collapse in any direction.]
[ jayce is only semi-conscious as his rib cage caves. he knows there is pain, but there was just so much of it at this point he'd barely register more. his heart fibrilates under every pump, the rest of him slowing down, from the crazed breathing to his terrible convulsing. his lungs work their last breaths to stagnant, filled to the brim with bleeding tissue that puffs out through the chest cavity being sliced open. his body could only react now, twitching and grunting, his eyes truly rolling back with a flutter and gaping lips. there is . . . someone above him as his quivering heart is forced to pump a few more times. it gives his brain a few more useless sparks of warmth he needed to mask the horrors currently keeping his body on a thin thread. a hooded figure he could see so clearly after seeing his world go indistinct and overcast is what dots the beautiful nebulae behind him. a pointed face and whistful smile of a mage who's eyes flash red with passion.
it seems we did not anticipate this detour, did we, jayce?
jayce reacts to seeing him hovering above his head, kneeling down to pet his sweat caked hair, placing him in between his lap in an elegant swoop of colorful fabrics: his brows twitch upwards, the smallest of whines creaks from behind an compulsory gasp as blood stained tears slide down the curves of his cheeks. the mage cups jayce's face and shakes his head with deep condolences, nimble thumbs brushing away at the wetness that clings to his beard.
hush, my heart. i know you tried.
it is everything jayce wanted to hear. if he could lean into the warmth of his deathbed vision, he would— but he can't move. not a single inch. if he could cry more, he would. his brows only twitch, and his lower lip tremors. he has so much to say, but . . . he can't find the words, he thinks . . . the mage gazes ahead for a moment, jayce's eyes attempt to follow— but the mage steers his chin back up to watch him. he did not have to look. he shouldn't.
within the current restrictions, he tried, too.
jayce knows that. he'd never blame viktor for this. he'd never forsake him for something he didn't have control over. even back home . . . jayce had never left him then. he wouldn't turn his back now. the mage studies jayce's wandering face for a moment, and nods to him.
we'll go back. we'll try again.
that's all he wants to hear as the weight of his head dips sideways, and moist eyes go dim and opaque.
until the next possibility, jayce.
it is there where even the involuntary spasms of silt-caked fingertips cease, and jayce talis fully succumbs to the fate he chose. ]
[The shut down of the Herald, of Viktor's whole sense of personhood, collapses like a dying star. Of course, that implosion is met by an equal opposite. Everything within Viktor sparks and combusts, outward, outward, and outward. His body is filled again with consciousness and he struggles within the husk of himself. Nerves flare and sensation cannot be distinguished between anguishing pain and peak pleasure. There is no good nor bad, there is only the intensity of feeling. Feeling does not always mean hurt.
He remembers who he is, he reaches for his face and presses down the mask there. Viktor knows it will not pull off, it has to return from where it came. Somehow, he knows this, it is instinctive, an animal impulse. He writhes his head, thrashing against himself, and the mask begins to crumple by his force of will for it to retract. It is like a bundle of tin paper being balled up and retreating. His face peels back into place, fuses together once more, and he tears at his mouth and nostrils. Suddenly, he needs to breathe-
Both peel and pop open, flesh unfusing. He gasps, ragged and suffocated. Eyes pop open next, vision blurry and purple, shimmer-shot from burst vessels clouding his sight. Blinking that away, letting it run down the sides of his face in tears, he remembers.
He looks down and sees Jayce. Dead. So obviously dead. And yet, he calls out to him, as if there is some sliver of a chance he'll get a response,]
Jayce..? [he knows there will be no answer. It crushes Viktor to know this. The depth of heartbreak he feels is worse than any pain he's felt in his short, agonizing life. He failed himself, he failed Sky, he failed Jayce. Yet, completely overwhelmed with despair more vast than any he's ever known, Viktor feels so grateful to feel anything at all.
Numbness had been worse.
At least like this, he can scream. He does so, loud and broken, clutching his forehead. Tears roll down the sharp angles of his nose and cheekbones and chin. They fall into Jayce's open chest. In his grief, Viktor loses track of time, it could have only been seconds or it could be hours. He just mourns overtop Jayce's lifeless body until his eyes finally peel open and... he sees the shimmer of his blood mixed with Jayce's wounds.
The anomaly within. It reacts. It reacts in patterns that Viktor recognizes. It grows. Self replicating in the same way it was also self destructive. His mind, it buzzes, it comes back alive. He tears into his own bottom lip with his teeth, drawing as much blood as he can as quickly as he can. The rest of him is winding metal, but inside- he has blood. Shimmer. Variant shimmer- Evolved shimmer-
Another test. He lets it drip from his mouth onto Jayce's wounds and they react further. Flesh grows in sinewy patterns, webs with circles between. Is this can heal his body to a working state-
Then all Viktor needs is to replace what he broke and reignite the whole engine.
If it's madness or delusion, Viktor can't care, not anymore. He stands from Jayce's corpse and rushes away. He needs some basic supplies. Tubes, pumps, and jumper cables-
[Viktor formulates his plan on the fly, but it's a spiral of brilliance and insanity. The logic goes:
Jayce needs a transfusion of Viktor's blood so the anomaly infection can revert from rot to growth. He needs a working heart to pump that blood. Viktor is some manner of bug, which really only need a heart the same way a machine needs an engine. His human heart is serving that purpose, but it should be replaceable in him with mere engineering prowess. If he can give his organic heart to Jayce, it should pump the shimmer transfusion to everywhere the man needs healing.
All that in order, a sufficient spark of electrical force should kickstart him back to life.
Viktor has jumper cables, a conductive metal body, and an electric vehicle. All he really needs to make for himself is a mechanical heart. How difficult could that be? It's just an automatic pump, when all things come down to it. He can build something passable from scraps and upgrade it later on. There's no knowing how long he has before Jayce is truly, really, too far gone. Viktor does what he's always done... he gets to work.
Having a third arm really helps his productivity speed. Monstrous as his transformation feels to him, that part he would keep given the choice.
If there is one thing to be said about Viktor's persistence, it is that nobody believes in Viktor as much as Viktor does. He leaves no room for doubt that this will work. Ultimately, he is the Herald and the Herald is an extension of his obsessive core. He will do this. He has nothing more to lose.
The scene around Jayce's truck grows increasingly elaborate. The cybertruck is parked, engine roaring at full electrical output, brick left on the gas pedal. Viktor has cracked open his own chest cavity and installed inside himself a new core, capable of pumping the shimmer blood as an insect's heart does. His own, still organic heart is severed with the help of that scalpel sharp third arm. He gasps at the transition of relying upon natural organ to reliance upon a machine, but he's so close now. Pain and discomfort are nothing, Viktor has long been at the threshold of how much agony he can even process at once.
All he can think of is how worthwhile this accomplishment will be.
He severs and removes Jayce's torn and shredded heart. It is replaced with Viktor's own, the organ still beating. Viktor connects it to transfusion leads into his own arteries, releasing valves and letting shimmer flow freely through him and into Jayce. There should be no rejection, this way. No incompatibility between transplantation and donor. They are all of the same.
That reaction occurs just as Viktor first witnessed. Replication. Growing. Healing. The divine opposite of rot and decay. He's struck by the profound beauty of it before him.
Jayce will live. He will. Viktor grab the sparking jumper cables charged to his truck and attaches them to the root of his third arm, upon the metal anchor points that once braced his degenerating spinal column. His entire body buzzes with electrical energy, it conducts through his metal skin with ease of energy flow. A rub of his palms together to work the charge. No further hesitation.
He pressed both hands to Jayce's chest and defibrillates him.]
[ in death there is nothing. no presence, no existence. just quiet. peace, if one recalled what came before. loneliness, if one could recall who was missing. a hooked up heart spreads its shimmering drug through jayce's inert veins and arteries, causing a compulsory reaction across sickly tissue beginning with his open chest cavity: contraction. reaction. the surprise purple gleam of it glows from underneath jayce's pallor and fuses with the anomaly's uncanny coloring at their very edges. they curl, twine, it's only a touch, a greeting— magic and chemistry shake hands and wait for the perfect catalyst, while deep within jayce's consciouness, something . . . stirs. in that dark quiet speaks a voice that felt like home, accent thick and inviting:
are you ready to try again, jayce?
the shock erupts through his system, surges through his bones and decaying tissue until his veins bulge purple from the chest out, webbing and merging with the anomaly's rooted patterns from within jayce and spreading until shimmer and arcanic infection are one and the same. the rot welcomes the stimulus and feeds on it, uses it as potent fuel to repair what was needed of it. self-propagating. self-destructive.
rise up, jayce.
there were some things that this mad experiment couldn't override, or fix, but it would have to do; there were changes this world has marked him with, just as its marked viktor. jayce's open wounds do not heal in full. his chest remains splayed, the bone that's been plucked from the case of his ribs, gone. he is as cold as a corpse and would remain that way despite the concoction of chemicals in his system, but at least the pus-leaking holes are filled with symmetrical blooms that do not bleed his newly forming blood, a now viscous goop of arcane rot and shimmer kept tucked and pulsing within his circulation.
with each apparent thump from his donor's heart clearly seen through the window the herald had carved, jayce's cells reanimate. with every ripple, fingers and muscles lurch. he is unconscious, for now, but technically— he's alive.
perhaps undead is the better word for it. ]
Edited (now I'm not sleeping lmao) 2025-02-23 11:23 (UTC)
[There is an impulse to shock the man again. And again. To try too much to bring him back. Viktor restrains himself, seeing that self sabotage in his memories of being the Herald. Push too hard and it all just bruises, shreds, and falls apart.
Jayce's new heart is beating. His skin is flushing again, cold in color and temperature, but clearly there is energy beneath it. No longer an inert corpse, decaying away to nothingness. Another shock would do no good, might just burst what Viktor gave him. It isn't as if he ever had a strong heart to begin with. It's just the best he has to offer.
Even after all this effort and pain, Viktor thinks Jayce deserved something better than he got given.]
Jayce..?
[another, pointlessly hopeful questioning. No, there's no way he'll answer. He's not even breathing. He needs to breathe. Viktor holds back if only because he knows the man's lungs, half visible in his open chest cavity, need to drain of fluid and heal before it will have any purpose in attempting to push air into him. When his body is reacting with more life, that will be the final step. Or, so Viktor thinks.
He's not a doctor, he's an engineer. This is just ignition fuel. Viktor removes the cables from his back and puts a hand to the side of Jayce's truck to release the excess electricity from his system. He attached a grounding cable to it just for this situation. Viktor thinks of everything. Or so he tries, at least.
Last step, no fanfare to it. Viktor arches over Jayce and cradles his head in both hands. Taking a deep breath, he locks their mouths to push all the air he can down into Jayce's lungs to fill them. He does so again and again and again. Hopefully, one of these times, Jayce's body will catch on that this is what it's supposed to be doing all on its own.
Maybe, Jayce will even wake up, but that might be wishful thinking.]
[ jayce's chest expands like two balloons still filled with fluid— but at least they move. the sunken cavity rises and falls, rises and falls with each breath of life viktor gives him. parts of jayce, such as his limbs, his hands, twitch and unfurl with an abberant jerk to the movement itself, like it wants to shift. the muscles were energized, now they only needed the brain to switch on. consciousness to reactivate.
their chances look dim the longer jayce just doesn't breathe on his own. the air whistles in and bubbles the blood still sitting in his lungs, but that is what repeats— soft whistling, expansion, and a subtle spuming reverberating inside its broken casing like blowing through a straw into a glass of water. if viktor doesn't give up, neither does jayce, and the result of that shines through like the surprise pop from an ignition. with one more push of viktor's blow, the hardest one yet— jayce finally reacts. he lurches violently and coughs inward, a warning sign for viktor to retreat with his mouth, because the second time jayce coughs, it's a messy expulsion. blood, blight and frothy sputum stain his teeth versicolor and splatters wherever the blots fall. strangely enough, it doesn't feel as dire as his earlier breathing. it might even be more of a relief than something to panic about.
jayce's convulsing to disgorge the blood continues for a short while, barely enough to fully clean his airways— but he is gasping, wetness scratching his throat and a deep bubbling recoiling in his chest that makes it feel like someone threw him into the ocean and placed a boulder on top to keep him there. he takes his first breath after laying dead for a few hours, which shouldn't be possible, but here he was: back. not exactly alive. not entirely dead. very disoriented as his eyes reel back into his head when he tries to open them.
he can't translate if what he's feeling under his ribs is immense pain or bizzare pleasure. it feels like lava and ice course through him with each thrum, leaving a trail of intense vigor behind, an obscure warping that— distorts, disrupts the pain, and growls within his marrow like the mercury hammer's core would respire. it's the same wordless whisper that came from rubbing his rune, that humming in his brain . . .
he is hushing nonsense, none of the sounds actual words yet beyond broken syllables. it's not until an uncoordinated hand tries to pad at his collar down to the hole in his chest, weak, sloppy and unaware it's gaping because there's something there, there's pressure and vibrating, and burning when he breathes so maybe he should whack it off— ]
I-I'm . . . Ready, V—
[ his voice is so hoarse, garbled, not unlike someone trying to talk under waves and yet he still speaks. he's ready to "try again", but it seems he's in dire need of aid first. or, well.
perhaps he's a bit beyond that. it should be hurting more than he shows. it should be excruciating. but it's likely jayce is a little too detached from what's happening to catalog what he's feeling at all.
[Viktor tries and tries and tries again. Like Jayce, he is a master of persistence. He shows far less restraint in this part than the other, needing that final reaction. Needing Jayce to inhale on his own. If he can't, this really was all for nothing-
He feels that shuddering reaction, finally, and reacts fast himself. Viktor scoops Jayce's back up from the bed of the truck and pivots him, supporting him so the man can hack and vomit up any bile he needs to. Viktor pats heavily at his back to aid him through it, muttering only semi-coherent encouragements to let this out-
It doesn't really sink in for Viktor that this... really worked. Not until Jayce speaks. Recognizes him. Calls him V-]
Jayce! You're... you're alive! You're alive... [Jayce probably isn't coherent enough yet to recognize the mirror of their circumstances to where he's once been. That can sink in later. Viktor is wrapping both arms around him to hug him from behind, burning his face into the back of Jayce's shoulder. There are a mass of tubes hanging from Viktor, leading into Jayce to transfuse him with shimmer. It's a real tangle of limbs and machinery, a web of wiring and plastics.
All worth it. Viktor turns his head and presses and ear to Jayce's back. He can hear his heart beating within the man. No, no longer his. Jayce's heart. He's alive.
Somehow, Viktor saved him, brought him back from the dead. Nothing else matters.]
[ oh, he's so wet and sticky, what has he been laying in? the smell is starting to make his nose pinch, he tastes iron and something unidentifiable— his eyes are rolling less when he tries to glance around yet remains unfocused as the world dances and splits into two, sometimes three in his dizzying vision. the thing that soothes what starts as agitation (he wants to move, he wants to know where he is, what he's doing here and that's probably a bad idea), there are spindly purple arms decked with gold around his wide shoulders. all around them. has he heard those words before—? ]
My line . . .
[ his words come in sluggish drawls, like he's still being jostled from a deep sleep his most recent memories need to catch up to him. jayce knows the accent, and the face that sharpens through his foggy focus when he turns it sideways and snags viktor's burried profile. he doesn't know what all of this is. there's tubes? does he need these? should he pull at them? he's not at a hospital, he doesn't need tubes (but jayce's movements are lazy enough to be redirected; he's still getting a feel for his surroundings).
something more striking to look at is . . . viktor, right now, anyway. hugging him like this. was this a dream? he'd like to hug him, too, but only manages to revolve his head and knock the back of his skull against his partner's. a clumsy arm misses its mark when it slabs up and fails to grasp. it takes a few more tries to manage hooking his fingers onto the metallic groove of viktor's arms. huh. they're so long. they're bigger than him, even. ]
You got . . . So big, [ jayce still feels like he's dreaming— like this is surreal. an out of body experience, a funny skip in time to wake up to. ] What're they feeding you—?
[The last thing Viktor expects after all that emptiness, all the grief, and all that suffering is joke. The break in tension is so pure and brilliant. He wheezes out a laugh, cracks a smile despite everything.
Viktor sounds so happy,]
Haah, it's you, really you. You're back... [that's Jayce, humorous despite everything, despite all the worst things. Viktor wants to squeeze him, but he's afraid of his own strength and the man's own, fragile state of being. Just holds on, for now, keeps him still and secure, stops any of his dizzy struggling from tearing or pinching the tubing connecting them. That's all still necessary, until Viktor can check and the double-check Jayce is stable.]
I, I did everything I could. I understand now- I understand. How you... couldn't let me go. [they are just the same, Viktor isn't going to think critically on their codependency. All he can think about is how grateful he is and how proud of himself this makes him.
[ did he? or was that something he wanted to say to the viktor of his deathbed vision? either way, it was nice, hearing viktor chuckle at him, and for what reason? jayce couldn't make sense of what was so endearing when he was clearly telling the truth. it was sweet like honey. it made him want to just sit there and talk about their days. he loved seeing viktor happy and could not recall the last time he did.
"couldn't let me go". now, that's an odd thing to bring up— jayce takes a bit more time to focus on his surroundings, but the more he does the more he slows, and furrows the space between is eyes. why was he laying on the back of the cargo bed? why was hooked up to . .
carefully, rather than pulling blindly, jayce follows the tube connecting him to viktor. he was connected to viktor. in fact, how many things was viktor connected to? he tries to see, cranes his neck, and gets distracted by further details painting the scene. the viscous plash of opaline liquid around his legs dribbles off the cargo bed. it stains his clothes. he's not wearing a shirt. his chest is—
he remembers his chest flaring with pain, he remembered the herald. his mage, carefully steering his eyes away from the pluck of his heart from its home. the rhythmic, easy pulse starts to quicken. a rushing snare drum pressed against the wall of his spine and leveled shoulders rising and falling. his hands stay suspended, beginning to shake in front of him; the escalated breathing jostles the fluid still in his lung sack, interrupts the intake only by a fraction with a whooping cough before it resumes. the way his ribs are . . . thrumming with his heart is strange. the entire sensation, now that he is becoming more and more aware, is strange. like it has room to move rather than being wedged between tight muscle. it was a furnace but why was he so cold—? ]
W— Why is it, like that? My— [ his chest. something is very wrong with his chest. it glows like a purple neon sign from the inside, and he shouldn't be getting the feeling that the inside was only a dip away. the skin is off, the base of his collar bone is . . . cut. he can't see the smooth transition to his abdomen. there's a space in the way. he's caching up to the memory of drowning in his own blood. of bleeding out. of his arm, and his leg. to keep from dreadfully inching his fingers closer to his chest, jayce follows the rough grooves of his arm up his neck. it invades his face.
only a singular eye of his is fully hazel-gold— his right. the other, his left, is tainted with the same color and pattern as the anomaly's unusual kisses all over him. before jayce speaks, he croaks, his lips quivering and his gaze now wide with fear. not of viktor. not his beloved.
he fears what has happened and what is happening to him. ] You . . . How?
[Oh. Oh no. Viktor's joy is quickly swept out from beneath him. Jayce realizing just the state he's in, remembering anything that happened to him before this- Viktor reaches his hands to take Jayce's. He tries to quell the shivering and shaking by gripping onto him for support and stability. His hands... they're so overlarge now, still thin and elegant, but Jayce always had the much larger set.
Viktor gasps, trying to not be frantic, but he's so worried Jayce will just... die again of shock or horror,]
You are alive. That's- That's what matters..! Steady... steady, stand by, please. I need you to stay with me. [a rattling of words, familiar phrases between them from back in the laboratory days. How many times had they needed to tell one another steady and stand by-? Too many to even count, so mundane were the phrases, but they feel so weighty to recall in such a dire moment. Let them ground Jayce, just a little, in Viktor's company and embrace,]
How- I-? I... reviv- [no, let's not use that word, something less magical and more medical-] -r, resuscitated you. Transfusion with my blood- and you still need it! Don't... pull at anything.
[Viktor pants, desperate to calm himself as well, seeing all he wrought upon Jayce. It's so much torture, isn't it?
Sometimes, death is a mercy...
No, there is no mercy in Viktor. He is cruel in this precise way. Jayce admitted he was, too. They are just the same. It is more truth than ever.]
[ steady steady steady. he's looking for viktor because he doesn't think he could look anywhere else without wandering more, learning more. he needs his pillars, he needs his ground. he needs him, right now, and creaks out words like tightened wood groans when forced to bend. ]
O— Okay.
[ that's a start. holding his hands. gripping them like they'd blow away if he'd let them slip. viktor's hands were so much bigger, now. it's almost comforting that he's being engulfed by his size difference, but jayce does not want to think of the implications that brought. more memories. these hurt his very soul, and he jayce is so, so glad that automated chill of words aren't what's speaking at him. ]
You— you changed, I remember— I'm not mad, I— I didn't want, to die, just—
[ they were one in the same, weren't they? jayce can't be mad. he once did this to viktor. he knows he'd do it again. he doesn't care if that amount of interdependancy is unhealthy or wrong, it's them.
but it is an overwhelming amount of information coming in too fast for jayce to assimilate step by step. he is piecing things together, pulling memories like they'd been tied to threads. every tug earned him another following string of events, and another— oh, so this was what it was like. with some differences in circumstance, of course, but one thing would still haunt him: he didn't come back the same. he feels like there's something inherently wrong with him. there is a surge, an energy under his skin. a burning in his veins and an icy coldness in his flesh and bone. he could still feel, but his pain feels dulled. not because there is none, because he could still feel this embrace, these hands, the only real warmth he has because their wildly contrasting temperatures were on different spectrums entirely— and viktor was an external factor. jayce warms up only because of him.
there is, additionally, the state of his appearance that is not easing him. a breeze weaves through them and jayce could feel it brushing a flow inside him. he gasps, quiet and shocked and choking back the need to cry. he was so bloody. it's really open. oh, dear gods, he's got his chest open and he can't feel it, thank god he can't feel it but holy shit he should feel it. he's squeezing viktor's hands harder and harder, trying to look elsewhere but he feels absolutely sick. all in his head, of course. his digestive system doesn't work in a traditional sense anymore. his stomach doesn't flip when its shut down and unresponsive. he won't vomit. that feels wrong, too. ]
Scared, please— talk to me.
[ jayce has always been open about what he feels, or at least he tries very much to be when he recognizes them. he's trying to do that now. ]
You should be... furious. I've done- a terrible thing to you. [One of many, but Viktor is sternly set in his ways. He wouldn't undo any of it, except how badly he tore into Jayce as the Herald. In that state, Viktor wasn't himself. His emotions, much as he yearns to just turn them off and be rid of them, are what make him. To be without them was a horrifying experience and it hurt Jayce... so profound and horrifically.
Viktor adjusts his arms and legs, pulling Jayce sidelong into his lap. Cradling him with one arm around his back to keep him upright. Viktor's other hand and stay held to Jayce's or check over his work... he knows it looks just awful, the splayed open chest, the tubes leading them together. Still, they both need reckon with it or there is no continuing on. It must be this way. It is the only way left.]
I- know. I'm scared too, Jayce, of losing you. I don't- really allow myself to get scared. You know this. [Viktor is a fearless man, he has always moved through his life knowing it will be short and difficult. That didn't make it not worth living. He was so intent on making something of himself- all he really wanted was to be alongside Jayce through whatever might happen-]
You don't want to hear that. Right now. My apologies- I... don't know what to say.
[he dips his head and nudges his forehead softly to Jayce's, not sure if he'll welcome that, Viktor won't push it if Jayce flinches away. Something to comfort Jayce? What would make any sense? Something to busy the man's mind, something flippant and far afield,]
... what would you rather be, a snowball or a rock?
[ jayce stays quiet in regards to how he should be feeling; perhaps it's because he understands profoundly the panic and greif that ravished him when he thought he lost viktor, did not stop to think about the repercussions and actually thought . . . he'd done something good with the hexcore. that keeping viktor alive was the right thing to do, but did not take into consideration he promised viktor to destroy what saved him. it's hard to take anything into consideration when you have to make a decision. viktor, at least, knows what it implies. knows it for what it was. jayce only realized the same fact later, when he had more than enough time to ruminate on it.
they deserve each other. they're even, now. they share the worst of their acts between them and no one else. even in this case, it is . . . perfect. jayce needed viktor's disapproval then to evolve as a person. viktor needed the opposite from jayce now— acceptance, to realize something he was blinded to. he could remind him about that . . . later. in a few minutes, or maybe a few hours. right now he is hanging by a thread, a drop away from panic. he has to force himself to look anywhere else but these tubes, else he invites the intrusive thought to rip them out.
he finds that distraction, instead, in viktor's hold. he dares not flee from it because jayce has always been a tactile creature, he's always craved this. he shrinks into him like he would cling to a lifeline, allows himself to be small as he bends his knees and curves his back to the arch of viktor's chest. his only discomfort is in wondering if this feels . . . gross, to him. if all this watery gasoline-blood soaking him would deter him. but then again, both of them were very, very gross right now.
jayce heart skips and slows just a tad, there's still a frightened race to it but it is not wild. there's a difference in the pacing from a few seconds ago to now. he closes his eyes, breathes in because it calms him, a shame that it triggers a cough or two, but nothing he can't chug through. it's the pressure to his forehead that stills him the most, makes his breathing actually stop for a few seconds before he exhales, with relief, and pushes his neck forward in turn. if the beat is still quick, it's for a different reason. he doesn't mind . . . just staying there, for a bit. he'd thought he lost this.
he doesn't mind at all. ]
A— rock. So I wouldn't . . . Disappear.
[ from this. it's enough. this is more than enough. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
P-Please, come back, Viktor—
[ he's begging. he needs him. without him, and without a path he could see to bring him back from the brink— jayce had done it all for nothing. and that is what he's feeling, right now.
a deep, harrowing hopelessness that was swallowing his will to survive one more day. viktor of the future was probably so indescribably disappointed in him. would he understand? would he hate him for this?
he mumbles, to himself as he cradles his own head: it's not my fault, this was an accident, we shouldn't be here, i promised, my promise, no, no i, failed, failure, i'm a, no . . . take me back, i want, to go back, i promised you— ]
no subject
[His hold on Jayce is secure, carrying him down the cabin steps three at a time, strides cracking the wood paneling beneath them. Viktor's tone is hollowed and empty, the only thing there is recognition devoid of awe. Pride without humanity. Speaking to an accomplishment, yet holding no elation and no dissatisfaction.
Speaking truth, without any meaning.]
Free of pain, free of emotion. My mind has full clarity, I am unclouded by weakness. I sought this.
[His pursuit has ended. This is all he could have hoped for, a version of himself that can complete his goals, unburdened by all that held him down in his life.]
I have achieved perfection.
no subject
You never needed to be perfect, Viktor.
[ would he hear him? would he be able to touch that concentrated core somewhere beneath that purple matter? if jayce has one last hope, it's this one, and he seizes it like a lifeline, like an angel pulling him out of the depths he was drowning in. if it's going to snap anyway, well . . .
at least it was telling him more. more than maybe he could've said, explained, at another time, another place. another life. he's not getting through the day and he's serving him his heart— with all of his own flaws. ]
—I- I loved you for every imperfection. They're what make you.
no subject
[While Viktor... Viktor is free of such passions. Of his loves and hates. He has been purged of all the unnecessary clutter of human experience. The messiness, cleaned up and organized into objective truths. It is so blissful, to be free of so much complication, so many clashing wants and impractical concerns.
All he has now is a goal. A promise to keep, a commitment to uphold.
Jayce will live, because Viktor's purpose is wrapped too far up in their dream to ever be separated from him.
Being the Herald, he cannot comprehend why he has this as his purpose, it merely is. A fact, fixed and unable to be changed nor altered. It may as well have been programmed into him, his ordained function, the reason for this form.]
You will understand when given proof. I will demonstrate my worthiness. Free you of the burdens I have caused. This is progress.
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jayce feels the strain overcoming his features, the burn at the base of his nose burdening the muscles surrounding his mouth. where the herald holds him is where he hangs in silence— the occassional strangled sob may slip, but he says no more. ]
no subject
He hoists his broken down partner off his shoulder once they find his butterfly engraved truck, just outside the shield's boundary. Viktor... passes the man his crutch, so he can use it for once. The Herald no longer requires such a tool.]
Take shelter. I will return for you when this matter is resolved and the shield is lowered.
(1 / 2)
the crutch— he takes it. jayce clutches viktor's crutch as if its the only thing he has left of him— a symbol of his strife and accomplishments, of his rise in a world that was so split, of all of his hard work, of his beautiful imperfections that jayce did love, with all of his heart and soul. he helped make this crutch for him.
jayce allows the herald to leave in the same way he'd ended up here: in a dreadful silence of quiet nods and simple gestures (not that it matters, to viktor). he needs to think, to scrape up what he's gathered— maybe do a little more digging as a final drive. his heart skips in places that feel uncomfortable. his limbs ache with cold, until it devolves into a gradually creeping, painful numbness.
he finishes up, gives his papers all to serph, eventually, and waits for either the herald to return or for death to pay him a visit. he thinks he's more prepared for the latter. ]
(2/2) cw: gross infection stuff and imminent character death
his vision is swimming, his heart thumping so unbeleivably fast he could hear the racing in his ears, feel that it could pop out of his chest at any moment and he'd die that way. from a broken, overworked heart. but it is not stopping there. jayce's lungs try to keep up, give him air, but no matter how quickly he tries to bring the oxygen in, it wasn't enough to soothe his invisible suffocation. it burns. the faster he breathes, the more the fire catches, and he cannot seem to slow it down.
he feels— an energy. a flow. pulsating and invading and wrong, and jayce scrambles for the front seat door swung open, for anything he may have left in the compartments or pockets to cut open the fabric under his brace. he finds— he doesn't even see what it is, only that he could use the edge of it to pull apart seams in his rush. under his soaked pants leg is the nasty concoction of iridescent decay touched by the anomaly. strings of pus stick to cotton as he peels it away, or tries to, the dribbling blood from it mixing with bright greens, blue and pinks like gasoline. it smells god awful. the bone jostles inside and jayce feels like he could vomit and expire right there.
his consciousness dips, the blackness of his vision spreads at the edges, but he's thrown back to awareness by god knows what. his body doesn't want to stop. he realizes in his desperate heaving that he doesn't want to die, because— he still has something to do. send me back. he needs to go back. he wants to go back, there's a chance, there's still a chance there. where he actually needs to be.
his attempts are futile, but he hasn't come all this way just to give up. he hasn't. his own words thrum deep in his mind with each batter of his irratic pulse: i won't fail. he takes the leather straps of the top of his brace and squeezes as hard as he can to form a tourniquet. it still bleeds and the anomaly crawls higher. his arm— it's juttering on its own.
hiking his sleeve up his forearm to catch the webbed throbbing from the embedded rune overtaking his veins, jayce could feel the last of his strength being sapped. he sinks backwards against the truck's step up, trying to stay upright with useless gasping— the anomaly claws up his arm, plows a byway of multicolored nets up the left side of his neck and leaves a perfect pattern of holes crawling under his skin and boiling up to the surface.
now comes the panic. he's tachypneic, dyspneic, every shallow breath is painful and useless and still he's trying, writhing at the wheels of the truck and frantically raking at the footwell for viktor's cane on the passenger side.
he can't reach it— ]
no subject
The Herald returns after the battle has concluded and the Convoy is powering down from the crisis. Jayce will feel the abrupt grab of an overlarge hand at the back of his neck, scruffing him once more to lift away from the door. He's lifted clear off his feet, not that he's in any state to be on them, as the Herald looks him up and down in such a dire state. Bleeding through his clothes, infections boiling over. Jayce is practically falling apart at the seams.
Jayce is carried around and laid to the bed of his truck. Flat. With Viktor stepping over him and looking down with a cant of his head. Best done before any piece can fall off of him. Viktor's regard is as cold as ever, not emotional enough to even be scolding,]
How did it come to this, Jayce? What failure point do you have that we did not predict? You were simply not meant to die before I was.
no subject
jayce's brows crease with dolor and mourning as he's cleaved from the prospect of retrieving viktor's cane, hardly having the energy to kick, to smack— he barely has it in him to keep reaching as he's hoisted by the herald's claw and haphazardly placed on the cargo bed. his labor to breathe is about to get worse when his lungs contract from the extended pooling within it when laid on his back, he sputters— and blood spurts from his mouth and nose like a fountain, foamy and bright red with the stains of colors that were contaminating his flesh as is. he can't even turn over by himself, arching his neck and back as he coughs and violently asphyxiates on his own fluids.
his heart, his wheezing, his garbled cries— it's all too loud. he could barely hear him and make sense of words, his consciousness as bleak as a thread ready to snap. jayce looks to his spasming wrist anyway, as if it were an answer, where the acceleration rune glows, ripples— and the arcane's touch raids the left side of his face.
the guttural sounds that spewed off his wet lips might as well just be frantic nothings twined with his soaked panting. from his usual bronze he's as pale as paper, blood from his back and leg forming an oozing pool of pearly gore at the back of the pick-up. jayce points his eyes up, passenger seat as his organs fail him one by one. he stares in that direction, not the herald, eyes rolling back and fighting to keep craning, to stay awake through the searing that ravaged his chest from the inside. back window. the pretty curve of a personalized golden-red handle. the flip of chestnut curls twirled to one side when he was deep in thought. a mole above his lip, another just under his cheek like stars in the darkness of his vision failing. it might sound like he's squeaking, weeping:
vik, trr. viktr. vik. v. v. v.
how he manages to drag his hand up to brush his bloodied knuckles at the window was the result of a perishing delusion, but at least he . . . didn't feel alone. ]
cw: character death and dissection gore
[The Herald commands, as if words will change the fact of things. Jayce is sputtering his last breaths in blood soaked gurgles and whimpers. He falls heavily to both knees overtop of Jayce, the bed of truck denting down where his weight lands. Hands cross over one another and press palms to Jayce's chest. Even, rhythmic pushes follow. One, two, three- One, two, three- the beat of a heart. What beat that should be there.
There is nothing there. Jayce's body fails, protesting his death is of no use.
Not supposed to be. Hands tear away his shirt to bare Jayce's chest, ravaged by sickly flesh and the creep of anomaly infection. Viktor tries again. One, two, three- One, two, crack- Jayce's breastbone gives sickeningly under the continued attempts. The failure strikes at the core of the Herald, but he cannot reckon with it. There must be another step. A more drastic measure. The claw on his back whirls and pushes forward, digs into the broken center of Jayce's chest. It cuts into him with precise motions, scalpel sharp, a cross pattern to peel quarters of skin open.
Revealing the man was already rotted inside, impossibly alive before his death.
He has no purpose without Jayce. Accepting his death is not possible. The claw plucks delicately at broken bones, casting them aside. Muscle and sinew is peeled away, until he can reach Jayce's heart. With care, the three prongs grasp the organ directly, forcing the pulse to return. The action does no good. Even if it could drag Jayce's body into a state of "life", forcing his blood to run only means Jayce's body will be bled out dry. Red pools at Viktor's knees long before it's clear this is pointless.
The heart eventually tears in his grasp, unable to withstand the further abuse and strain. It's fully broken.
Reality hits Viktor. Jayce is dead beneath him. There is no question and no denying the fact.
He feels nothing about this.
No sorrow, no joy. He merely recognizes a failure. It doesn't feel like his own. It doesn't feel like anything at all. The numbness is so pure and distilled, there is no ache to it, no memory nor illusion of pain. Ego death follows. The light inside the Herald simply goes out. A machine unplugged, robbed of its energy source. He slumps, upright on his knees, an inert tower of metal too well balanced to simply collapse in any direction.]
no subject
it seems we did not anticipate this detour, did we, jayce?
jayce reacts to seeing him hovering above his head, kneeling down to pet his sweat caked hair, placing him in between his lap in an elegant swoop of colorful fabrics: his brows twitch upwards, the smallest of whines creaks from behind an compulsory gasp as blood stained tears slide down the curves of his cheeks. the mage cups jayce's face and shakes his head with deep condolences, nimble thumbs brushing away at the wetness that clings to his beard.
hush, my heart. i know you tried.
it is everything jayce wanted to hear. if he could lean into the warmth of his deathbed vision, he would— but he can't move. not a single inch. if he could cry more, he would. his brows only twitch, and his lower lip tremors. he has so much to say, but . . . he can't find the words, he thinks . . . the mage gazes ahead for a moment, jayce's eyes attempt to follow— but the mage steers his chin back up to watch him. he did not have to look. he shouldn't.
within the current restrictions, he tried, too.
jayce knows that. he'd never blame viktor for this. he'd never forsake him for something he didn't have control over. even back home . . . jayce had never left him then. he wouldn't turn his back now. the mage studies jayce's wandering face for a moment, and nods to him.
we'll go back. we'll try again.
that's all he wants to hear as the weight of his head dips sideways, and moist eyes go dim and opaque.
until the next possibility, jayce.
it is there where even the involuntary spasms of silt-caked fingertips cease, and jayce talis fully succumbs to the fate he chose. ]
no subject
He remembers who he is, he reaches for his face and presses down the mask there. Viktor knows it will not pull off, it has to return from where it came. Somehow, he knows this, it is instinctive, an animal impulse. He writhes his head, thrashing against himself, and the mask begins to crumple by his force of will for it to retract. It is like a bundle of tin paper being balled up and retreating. His face peels back into place, fuses together once more, and he tears at his mouth and nostrils. Suddenly, he needs to breathe-
Both peel and pop open, flesh unfusing. He gasps, ragged and suffocated. Eyes pop open next, vision blurry and purple, shimmer-shot from burst vessels clouding his sight. Blinking that away, letting it run down the sides of his face in tears, he remembers.
He looks down and sees Jayce. Dead. So obviously dead. And yet, he calls out to him, as if there is some sliver of a chance he'll get a response,]
Jayce..? [he knows there will be no answer. It crushes Viktor to know this. The depth of heartbreak he feels is worse than any pain he's felt in his short, agonizing life. He failed himself, he failed Sky, he failed Jayce. Yet, completely overwhelmed with despair more vast than any he's ever known, Viktor feels so grateful to feel anything at all.
Numbness had been worse.
At least like this, he can scream. He does so, loud and broken, clutching his forehead. Tears roll down the sharp angles of his nose and cheekbones and chin. They fall into Jayce's open chest. In his grief, Viktor loses track of time, it could have only been seconds or it could be hours. He just mourns overtop Jayce's lifeless body until his eyes finally peel open and... he sees the shimmer of his blood mixed with Jayce's wounds.
The anomaly within. It reacts. It reacts in patterns that Viktor recognizes. It grows. Self replicating in the same way it was also self destructive. His mind, it buzzes, it comes back alive. He tears into his own bottom lip with his teeth, drawing as much blood as he can as quickly as he can. The rest of him is winding metal, but inside- he has blood. Shimmer. Variant shimmer- Evolved shimmer-
Another test. He lets it drip from his mouth onto Jayce's wounds and they react further. Flesh grows in sinewy patterns, webs with circles between. Is this can heal his body to a working state-
Then all Viktor needs is to replace what he broke and reignite the whole engine.
If it's madness or delusion, Viktor can't care, not anymore. He stands from Jayce's corpse and rushes away. He needs some basic supplies. Tubes, pumps, and jumper cables-
He needs his stupid fucking electric truck.]
2/2 jayce is currently offline
Jayce needs a transfusion of Viktor's blood so the anomaly infection can revert from rot to growth. He needs a working heart to pump that blood. Viktor is some manner of bug, which really only need a heart the same way a machine needs an engine. His human heart is serving that purpose, but it should be replaceable in him with mere engineering prowess. If he can give his organic heart to Jayce, it should pump the shimmer transfusion to everywhere the man needs healing.
All that in order, a sufficient spark of electrical force should kickstart him back to life.
Viktor has jumper cables, a conductive metal body, and an electric vehicle. All he really needs to make for himself is a mechanical heart. How difficult could that be? It's just an automatic pump, when all things come down to it. He can build something passable from scraps and upgrade it later on. There's no knowing how long he has before Jayce is truly, really, too far gone. Viktor does what he's always done... he gets to work.
Having a third arm really helps his productivity speed. Monstrous as his transformation feels to him, that part he would keep given the choice.
If there is one thing to be said about Viktor's persistence, it is that nobody believes in Viktor as much as Viktor does. He leaves no room for doubt that this will work. Ultimately, he is the Herald and the Herald is an extension of his obsessive core. He will do this. He has nothing more to lose.
The scene around Jayce's truck grows increasingly elaborate. The cybertruck is parked, engine roaring at full electrical output, brick left on the gas pedal. Viktor has cracked open his own chest cavity and installed inside himself a new core, capable of pumping the shimmer blood as an insect's heart does. His own, still organic heart is severed with the help of that scalpel sharp third arm. He gasps at the transition of relying upon natural organ to reliance upon a machine, but he's so close now. Pain and discomfort are nothing, Viktor has long been at the threshold of how much agony he can even process at once.
All he can think of is how worthwhile this accomplishment will be.
He severs and removes Jayce's torn and shredded heart. It is replaced with Viktor's own, the organ still beating. Viktor connects it to transfusion leads into his own arteries, releasing valves and letting shimmer flow freely through him and into Jayce. There should be no rejection, this way. No incompatibility between transplantation and donor. They are all of the same.
That reaction occurs just as Viktor first witnessed. Replication. Growing. Healing. The divine opposite of rot and decay. He's struck by the profound beauty of it before him.
Jayce will live. He will. Viktor grab the sparking jumper cables charged to his truck and attaches them to the root of his third arm, upon the metal anchor points that once braced his degenerating spinal column. His entire body buzzes with electrical energy, it conducts through his metal skin with ease of energy flow. A rub of his palms together to work the charge. No further hesitation.
He pressed both hands to Jayce's chest and defibrillates him.]
AND WE'RE BACK
are you ready to try again, jayce?
the shock erupts through his system, surges through his bones and decaying tissue until his veins bulge purple from the chest out, webbing and merging with the anomaly's rooted patterns from within jayce and spreading until shimmer and arcanic infection are one and the same. the rot welcomes the stimulus and feeds on it, uses it as potent fuel to repair what was needed of it. self-propagating. self-destructive.
rise up, jayce.
there were some things that this mad experiment couldn't override, or fix, but it would have to do; there were changes this world has marked him with, just as its marked viktor. jayce's open wounds do not heal in full. his chest remains splayed, the bone that's been plucked from the case of his ribs, gone. he is as cold as a corpse and would remain that way despite the concoction of chemicals in his system, but at least the pus-leaking holes are filled with symmetrical blooms that do not bleed his newly forming blood, a now viscous goop of arcane rot and shimmer kept tucked and pulsing within his circulation.
with each apparent thump from his donor's heart clearly seen through the window the herald had carved, jayce's cells reanimate. with every ripple, fingers and muscles lurch. he is unconscious, for now, but technically— he's alive.
perhaps undead is the better word for it. ]
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Jayce's new heart is beating. His skin is flushing again, cold in color and temperature, but clearly there is energy beneath it. No longer an inert corpse, decaying away to nothingness. Another shock would do no good, might just burst what Viktor gave him. It isn't as if he ever had a strong heart to begin with. It's just the best he has to offer.
Even after all this effort and pain, Viktor thinks Jayce deserved something better than he got given.]
Jayce..?
[another, pointlessly hopeful questioning. No, there's no way he'll answer. He's not even breathing. He needs to breathe. Viktor holds back if only because he knows the man's lungs, half visible in his open chest cavity, need to drain of fluid and heal before it will have any purpose in attempting to push air into him. When his body is reacting with more life, that will be the final step. Or, so Viktor thinks.
He's not a doctor, he's an engineer. This is just ignition fuel. Viktor removes the cables from his back and puts a hand to the side of Jayce's truck to release the excess electricity from his system. He attached a grounding cable to it just for this situation. Viktor thinks of everything. Or so he tries, at least.
Last step, no fanfare to it. Viktor arches over Jayce and cradles his head in both hands. Taking a deep breath, he locks their mouths to push all the air he can down into Jayce's lungs to fill them. He does so again and again and again. Hopefully, one of these times, Jayce's body will catch on that this is what it's supposed to be doing all on its own.
Maybe, Jayce will even wake up, but that might be wishful thinking.]
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their chances look dim the longer jayce just doesn't breathe on his own. the air whistles in and bubbles the blood still sitting in his lungs, but that is what repeats— soft whistling, expansion, and a subtle spuming reverberating inside its broken casing like blowing through a straw into a glass of water. if viktor doesn't give up, neither does jayce, and the result of that shines through like the surprise pop from an ignition. with one more push of viktor's blow, the hardest one yet— jayce finally reacts. he lurches violently and coughs inward, a warning sign for viktor to retreat with his mouth, because the second time jayce coughs, it's a messy expulsion. blood, blight and frothy sputum stain his teeth versicolor and splatters wherever the blots fall. strangely enough, it doesn't feel as dire as his earlier breathing. it might even be more of a relief than something to panic about.
jayce's convulsing to disgorge the blood continues for a short while, barely enough to fully clean his airways— but he is gasping, wetness scratching his throat and a deep bubbling recoiling in his chest that makes it feel like someone threw him into the ocean and placed a boulder on top to keep him there. he takes his first breath after laying dead for a few hours, which shouldn't be possible, but here he was: back. not exactly alive. not entirely dead. very disoriented as his eyes reel back into his head when he tries to open them.
he can't translate if what he's feeling under his ribs is immense pain or bizzare pleasure. it feels like lava and ice course through him with each thrum, leaving a trail of intense vigor behind, an obscure warping that— distorts, disrupts the pain, and growls within his marrow like the mercury hammer's core would respire. it's the same wordless whisper that came from rubbing his rune, that humming in his brain . . .
he is hushing nonsense, none of the sounds actual words yet beyond broken syllables. it's not until an uncoordinated hand tries to pad at his collar down to the hole in his chest, weak, sloppy and unaware it's gaping because there's something there, there's pressure and vibrating, and burning when he breathes so maybe he should whack it off— ]
I-I'm . . . Ready, V—
[ his voice is so hoarse, garbled, not unlike someone trying to talk under waves and yet he still speaks. he's ready to "try again", but it seems he's in dire need of aid first. or, well.
perhaps he's a bit beyond that. it should be hurting more than he shows. it should be excruciating. but it's likely jayce is a little too detached from what's happening to catalog what he's feeling at all.
maybe that's it. ]
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He feels that shuddering reaction, finally, and reacts fast himself. Viktor scoops Jayce's back up from the bed of the truck and pivots him, supporting him so the man can hack and vomit up any bile he needs to. Viktor pats heavily at his back to aid him through it, muttering only semi-coherent encouragements to let this out-
It doesn't really sink in for Viktor that this... really worked. Not until Jayce speaks. Recognizes him. Calls him V-]
Jayce! You're... you're alive! You're alive... [Jayce probably isn't coherent enough yet to recognize the mirror of their circumstances to where he's once been. That can sink in later. Viktor is wrapping both arms around him to hug him from behind, burning his face into the back of Jayce's shoulder. There are a mass of tubes hanging from Viktor, leading into Jayce to transfuse him with shimmer. It's a real tangle of limbs and machinery, a web of wiring and plastics.
All worth it. Viktor turns his head and presses and ear to Jayce's back. He can hear his heart beating within the man. No, no longer his. Jayce's heart. He's alive.
Somehow, Viktor saved him, brought him back from the dead. Nothing else matters.]
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My line . . .
[ his words come in sluggish drawls, like he's still being jostled from a deep sleep his most recent memories need to catch up to him. jayce knows the accent, and the face that sharpens through his foggy focus when he turns it sideways and snags viktor's burried profile. he doesn't know what all of this is. there's tubes? does he need these? should he pull at them? he's not at a hospital, he doesn't need tubes (but jayce's movements are lazy enough to be redirected; he's still getting a feel for his surroundings).
something more striking to look at is . . . viktor, right now, anyway. hugging him like this. was this a dream? he'd like to hug him, too, but only manages to revolve his head and knock the back of his skull against his partner's. a clumsy arm misses its mark when it slabs up and fails to grasp. it takes a few more tries to manage hooking his fingers onto the metallic groove of viktor's arms. huh. they're so long. they're bigger than him, even. ]
You got . . . So big, [ jayce still feels like he's dreaming— like this is surreal. an out of body experience, a funny skip in time to wake up to. ] What're they feeding you—?
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Viktor sounds so happy,]
Haah, it's you, really you. You're back... [that's Jayce, humorous despite everything, despite all the worst things. Viktor wants to squeeze him, but he's afraid of his own strength and the man's own, fragile state of being. Just holds on, for now, keeps him still and secure, stops any of his dizzy struggling from tearing or pinching the tubing connecting them. That's all still necessary, until Viktor can check and the double-check Jayce is stable.]
I, I did everything I could. I understand now- I understand. How you... couldn't let me go. [they are just the same, Viktor isn't going to think critically on their codependency. All he can think about is how grateful he is and how proud of himself this makes him.
Finally. He saved someone's life.]
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[ did he? or was that something he wanted to say to the viktor of his deathbed vision? either way, it was nice, hearing viktor chuckle at him, and for what reason? jayce couldn't make sense of what was so endearing when he was clearly telling the truth. it was sweet like honey. it made him want to just sit there and talk about their days. he loved seeing viktor happy and could not recall the last time he did.
"couldn't let me go". now, that's an odd thing to bring up— jayce takes a bit more time to focus on his surroundings, but the more he does the more he slows, and furrows the space between is eyes. why was he laying on the back of the cargo bed? why was hooked up to . .
carefully, rather than pulling blindly, jayce follows the tube connecting him to viktor. he was connected to viktor. in fact, how many things was viktor connected to? he tries to see, cranes his neck, and gets distracted by further details painting the scene. the viscous plash of opaline liquid around his legs dribbles off the cargo bed. it stains his clothes. he's not wearing a shirt. his chest is—
he remembers his chest flaring with pain, he remembered the herald. his mage, carefully steering his eyes away from the pluck of his heart from its home. the rhythmic, easy pulse starts to quicken. a rushing snare drum pressed against the wall of his spine and leveled shoulders rising and falling. his hands stay suspended, beginning to shake in front of him; the escalated breathing jostles the fluid still in his lung sack, interrupts the intake only by a fraction with a whooping cough before it resumes. the way his ribs are . . . thrumming with his heart is strange. the entire sensation, now that he is becoming more and more aware, is strange. like it has room to move rather than being wedged between tight muscle. it was a furnace but why was he so cold—? ]
W— Why is it, like that? My— [ his chest. something is very wrong with his chest. it glows like a purple neon sign from the inside, and he shouldn't be getting the feeling that the inside was only a dip away. the skin is off, the base of his collar bone is . . . cut. he can't see the smooth transition to his abdomen. there's a space in the way. he's caching up to the memory of drowning in his own blood. of bleeding out. of his arm, and his leg. to keep from dreadfully inching his fingers closer to his chest, jayce follows the rough grooves of his arm up his neck. it invades his face.
only a singular eye of his is fully hazel-gold— his right. the other, his left, is tainted with the same color and pattern as the anomaly's unusual kisses all over him. before jayce speaks, he croaks, his lips quivering and his gaze now wide with fear. not of viktor. not his beloved.
he fears what has happened and what is happening to him. ] You . . . How?
[ he chooses to focus on that, first. ]
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Viktor gasps, trying to not be frantic, but he's so worried Jayce will just... die again of shock or horror,]
You are alive. That's- That's what matters..! Steady... steady, stand by, please. I need you to stay with me. [a rattling of words, familiar phrases between them from back in the laboratory days. How many times had they needed to tell one another steady and stand by-? Too many to even count, so mundane were the phrases, but they feel so weighty to recall in such a dire moment. Let them ground Jayce, just a little, in Viktor's company and embrace,]
How- I-? I... reviv- [no, let's not use that word, something less magical and more medical-] -r, resuscitated you. Transfusion with my blood- and you still need it! Don't... pull at anything.
[Viktor pants, desperate to calm himself as well, seeing all he wrought upon Jayce. It's so much torture, isn't it?
Sometimes, death is a mercy...
No, there is no mercy in Viktor. He is cruel in this precise way. Jayce admitted he was, too. They are just the same. It is more truth than ever.]
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O— Okay.
[ that's a start. holding his hands. gripping them like they'd blow away if he'd let them slip. viktor's hands were so much bigger, now. it's almost comforting that he's being engulfed by his size difference, but jayce does not want to think of the implications that brought. more memories. these hurt his very soul, and he jayce is so, so glad that automated chill of words aren't what's speaking at him. ]
You— you changed, I remember— I'm not mad, I— I didn't want, to die, just—
[ they were one in the same, weren't they? jayce can't be mad. he once did this to viktor. he knows he'd do it again. he doesn't care if that amount of interdependancy is unhealthy or wrong, it's them.
but it is an overwhelming amount of information coming in too fast for jayce to assimilate step by step. he is piecing things together, pulling memories like they'd been tied to threads. every tug earned him another following string of events, and another— oh, so this was what it was like. with some differences in circumstance, of course, but one thing would still haunt him: he didn't come back the same. he feels like there's something inherently wrong with him. there is a surge, an energy under his skin. a burning in his veins and an icy coldness in his flesh and bone. he could still feel, but his pain feels dulled. not because there is none, because he could still feel this embrace, these hands, the only real warmth he has because their wildly contrasting temperatures were on different spectrums entirely— and viktor was an external factor. jayce warms up only because of him.
there is, additionally, the state of his appearance that is not easing him. a breeze weaves through them and jayce could feel it brushing a flow inside him. he gasps, quiet and shocked and choking back the need to cry. he was so bloody. it's really open. oh, dear gods, he's got his chest open and he can't feel it, thank god he can't feel it but holy shit he should feel it. he's squeezing viktor's hands harder and harder, trying to look elsewhere but he feels absolutely sick. all in his head, of course. his digestive system doesn't work in a traditional sense anymore. his stomach doesn't flip when its shut down and unresponsive. he won't vomit. that feels wrong, too. ]
Scared, please— talk to me.
[ jayce has always been open about what he feels, or at least he tries very much to be when he recognizes them. he's trying to do that now. ]
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Viktor adjusts his arms and legs, pulling Jayce sidelong into his lap. Cradling him with one arm around his back to keep him upright. Viktor's other hand and stay held to Jayce's or check over his work... he knows it looks just awful, the splayed open chest, the tubes leading them together. Still, they both need reckon with it or there is no continuing on. It must be this way. It is the only way left.]
I- know. I'm scared too, Jayce, of losing you. I don't- really allow myself to get scared. You know this. [Viktor is a fearless man, he has always moved through his life knowing it will be short and difficult. That didn't make it not worth living. He was so intent on making something of himself- all he really wanted was to be alongside Jayce through whatever might happen-]
You don't want to hear that. Right now. My apologies- I... don't know what to say.
[he dips his head and nudges his forehead softly to Jayce's, not sure if he'll welcome that, Viktor won't push it if Jayce flinches away. Something to comfort Jayce? What would make any sense? Something to busy the man's mind, something flippant and far afield,]
... what would you rather be, a snowball or a rock?
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they deserve each other. they're even, now. they share the worst of their acts between them and no one else. even in this case, it is . . . perfect. jayce needed viktor's disapproval then to evolve as a person. viktor needed the opposite from jayce now— acceptance, to realize something he was blinded to. he could remind him about that . . . later. in a few minutes, or maybe a few hours. right now he is hanging by a thread, a drop away from panic. he has to force himself to look anywhere else but these tubes, else he invites the intrusive thought to rip them out.
he finds that distraction, instead, in viktor's hold. he dares not flee from it because jayce has always been a tactile creature, he's always craved this. he shrinks into him like he would cling to a lifeline, allows himself to be small as he bends his knees and curves his back to the arch of viktor's chest. his only discomfort is in wondering if this feels . . . gross, to him. if all this watery gasoline-blood soaking him would deter him. but then again, both of them were very, very gross right now.
jayce heart skips and slows just a tad, there's still a frightened race to it but it is not wild. there's a difference in the pacing from a few seconds ago to now. he closes his eyes, breathes in because it calms him, a shame that it triggers a cough or two, but nothing he can't chug through. it's the pressure to his forehead that stills him the most, makes his breathing actually stop for a few seconds before he exhales, with relief, and pushes his neck forward in turn. if the beat is still quick, it's for a different reason. he doesn't mind . . . just staying there, for a bit. he'd thought he lost this.
he doesn't mind at all. ]
A— rock. So I wouldn't . . . Disappear.
[ from this. it's enough. this is more than enough. ]
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